


The Hit

by wildcannabis



Category: South Park
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, F/M, French, Gen, Guns, Love, Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-09
Updated: 2012-05-09
Packaged: 2017-11-05 02:21:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcannabis/pseuds/wildcannabis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christophe encounters a former "acquaintance" under unfavorable circumstances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hit

The night was pitch black, like the color of Christophe’s eyes. Cigarette jammed in the corner of his mouth, the Mole was crouched inside the tangling entrails of a large bush, using a night vision scanner to scope out his hit.  
  
The woman was tall, lithe, and ravishing in a dark way. Her long, smoke-colored hair curled up venomously at the ends, and she was dressed out in all black. Christophe watched her movements through a small window as she walked about her house. Beside him was the revolver that would end the woman’s life.  
“Oh, ma cherie,” he whispered quietly, waiting for the right moment to stripe. The truth was the Mole and his hit had a past together; they’d even worked on a common mission or two. When Christophe had heard he was to kill her, he had been shocked. Shocked, and sad; or, as sad as a mercenary like himself could afford to be. Along with the gun, Christophe had brought a tranquilizer. He planned on making her death a kind one.  
  
After a while of having no visual on his target, the Mole became rather concerned. It was not until ten minutes later that he caught sight of her again through the small window in her bedroom. “Holy muzzer of…” he commented. The woman was standing in nothing but a towel. He watched, eyes wide, as she let that, too, slip off her skin and stood completely bare. “Vhat a damn shame zat I must keel you, love.”  
  
Christophe enjoyed the view while it lasted, and then shot the tranquilizer through her open window, a wave of regret pulsing through him as he took aim. His shot had been perfect, and he almost wished that it had been otherwise. The Mole crept into the woman’s house through that same window, revolver in hand.  
  
He hoisted the lady up into his arms, and settled her gently down on her bed. He suddenly felt an onslaught of tears threatening to spill over onto his cheeks. Geet a grip, he scolded himself, lighting another cigarette. “I am truly sorry, Aimee,” he whispered along the nape of her neck. “And I hope you forgeeve me.” Christophe leaned in, felt his lips caress her soft, dormant ones.  
  
Then he cocked his revolver, equipped with a silencer, and held Aimee’s hand as he pulled the trigger.


End file.
